A Game of Kids and Fluff
by Thunderslate
Summary: An AU of an AU of a spinoff game of a TV show...
1. Godric

**GODRIC**

Godric Forrester didn't like most people.

He didn't hate them either - as he had little capacity for hatred – but he was often upset by them. Few understood the inner workings of the round-faced fourthborn's mind. Often he thought none did.

Many claimed Godric was troubled. Sometimes he heard people call him simple-minded or slow, but he knew this was untrue. Deep inside, the thirteen-year-old was sharper than a knife. Just because he was as quiet as a mouse did not mean he was not full of words; more often than not he just simply could not find the strength to break through the dam of his own anxiety. He felt awkward around people, like he did not belong.

He was not the only one who felt that he didn't belong.

Godric's father was Lord of Ironrath and had come to expect little of his second son. Rodrik didn't _resent_ Godric, but had given up on teaching him to fight when the boy showed little interest or motivation to. As his father took a fighting stance, Godric would stare back at him with his round, wide eyes and his ever-present nervous frown. Godric liked writing more.

His mother was much the same. She was harsher than Rodrik, and had given up on Godric much sooner. She was still a loving mother – no doubt about it – but she often claimed she couldn't get through to him. When thinking about his mother, Godric's mind would often stray to thoughts of his aunt and her ancient cat. Elaena looked like her sister, and Godric liked his aunt more.

Godric's uncle was a drunk, his brother was married and had no time for him any more. His aunt was almost never present. When she was around, Lissa would turn her nose up at him as if there was a bad smell in the air. His sister Ashlynn and their savage, wolflike cousins were too loud for Godric's liking. Loud noises made him feel uneasy.

His name days would often come and go without notice or celebration, but he liked it that way. Big fusses and celebrations made his head hurt, masses of people made him feel confused and overloaded.

Tonight he had not attended Harrold's name day feast – not for long, at least. His parents had insisted he make himself known, sit up on the dais above everyone else, alongside Lissa and Ashlynn and Harrold and Harrold's Wife _._

Godric had stayed for as long as he could bear before rushing to his chambers. Closing the door behind him he had slid down the wall, resting his forehead on his knees as he pulled them into his chest, puffs and short breath escaping his mouth as he clenched his eyes shut. He shuddered and shook and mumbled to himself, desperately trying to calm down.

Then he jolted as someone put their hand on his shoulder.

Godric's head shot up and he looked to his right with wide, fearful eyes. But then he smiled. It was Mira who was next to him.

Mira was the sibling he liked most. They were the closest in age, and though she was fiercely protective and confrontational, she was kind to Godric. She spoke to him in a hushed tone that didn't make his ears ring.

"Do you need someone?" she asked. Mira always knew what to say – it wasn't much, but her words carried more weight than those of any book in the Citadel's library.

Godric hummed and nodded, unable to make eye contact with his sister. Pressing her back to the wall, the eleven-year-old copied Godric's movements and slid down next to him so that they were elbow to elbow, resting the side of her head on his shoulder.

"Did someone say something?" she asked, voice slightly muffled by Godric's sleeve. Gently he let his head tip so that his cheek brushed against her rich brown hair, but maintained a staring contest with the chair across his room.

"Ronnel Woods," he mumbled, words barely audible. Many often claimed Godric's mouth didn't move at all when he spoke. "He asked why I was named after a famous warlord if all I do is 'stare into thin air like a dim witted fool'. He told father he should make me Ironrath's jester because then at least I'd 'be entertaining'."

Mira slapped her knee and emitted a strained grunt. "Bugger him," she spat. "Father will show him."

"He didn't do anything," Godric admitted. "I watched him. I was right there and he inflated like he was going to fight back but then he just sighed and looked at the floor. After a man said his own son would amount to nothing but the House's fool."

"Bugger father too, then." Mira grimaced. Godric couldn't see the shift in expression, but felt her face twist into a frown through the folds in his sleeve. "No one should treat you badly because you're... different."

Godric didn't even fight the statement. He was thirteen years old – by now he knew and acknowledged that he was different, and it was inoffensive coming from Mira. She could say anything about him and he'd take it in stride; she was the only one who could, because she made the effort to be nice to him in the first place.

"I don't know what's wrong with me." he admitted.

"Maybe something is." Mira agreed. "But it doesn't matter, you may well just be different. You're my brother and I know you're a good person. You've never hurt anyone, not even the spiders in my room. It's more likely that something's wrong with everyone else."

"I hurt mother and father every day." Godric told her. "By being here. They wanted a son like Harrold, who could fight and had charisma and commands respect. I do none of those things, I'm not what they wanted."

Mira sighed. She chewed on one of her braids for a moment, then let it fall from her mouth as she blew air through her lips. Frowning, she shifted again and looked at her brother.

"Well they always say to _us_ we don't always get what we want." she told him. "They should listen to themselves for once."

"Even if they didn't say it, it wouldn't stop it being true." Godric proposed. "They'd still be disappointed in me and wouldn't want me. They can't even bring themselves to defend me. I saw the disappointment in father's face."

"Well, they're not the only people who matter." Mira frowned. " _I_ wouldn't want a different brother. Harrold is stupid and married. Even if mother and father don't want you, which I'm sure is untrue, I still want you as my brother. What _I_ want matters, doesn't it?"

Godric nodded. While he was warmed by Mira's words, his face did not twist into a smile – he did not often smile.

"I wouldn't want a different sister, either." he murmured. "You're nice to me when no one else is. You're always nice and make sure I'm all right. I wish I could be the same for you."

Mira shrugged. "Knowing you're not feeling bad is enough."

Godric slowly up against the wall, rising until he was standing once more. "I think I'll go to sleep." he disclosed, fiddling with the cuff of one of his sleeves. "Maybe my head will be better in the morning. It feels very heavy right now."

Mira climbed to her feet and made her way to the door wordlessly, but as she opened it she turned back and looked over her shoulder. "Do you need someone?"

The fourthborn's head slowly turned to face his sister, eyes round and mouth forced into his familiar frown. He tilted his neck, nodding gradually to confirm his sister's suspicions. Mira quickly closed the door and walked back to Godric where he had lingered in the centre of the floor, then guided him to his bed and gestured for him to lie down.

When the boy had taken off his boots and lay down on the bedding, Mira silently unfolded a blanket and placed it over him, her expression one a mother might have while going through the motions with her baby. She tucked the sheet under Godric's chin then lowered herself into the chair at his bedside, placing her hands on the edges of the armrests.

They held a neutral gaze for a moment until Godric turned so that he was staring at the rafters above. His eyes flitted this way and that, studying the grooves and lines of the ironwood beams until he felt his lids become heavy and he turned onto his side.

For a moment or two he lay still – only able to hear his own breaths – but a sudden change took him by surprise. The sheet was tugged a little, raised slightly, and then Godric felt something press against his back. Turning so that he could look over his shoulder, he saw Mira had moved to sit on the side of the bed and was busy removing her own boots. When she was done she neatly picked them up with one hand, catching the collars with her fingers, and neatly pressed them down on the bedside chair, dusting off the side of one of the pair and turning them so that the toe caps faced towards her. Godric had simply cast his own shoes across the room – seeing Mira's attention to detail and care for her belongings brought a rare smile to his face. It was the little things that killed his frown.

Godric's head fell back onto the pillow and he began to stare at the wall again until he sensed another displacement in the bed. Glancing backwards briefly, he saw that Mira was now lying next to him, their backs pressed together.

"I hope you don't mind." Mira murmured, stifling a yawn.

Godric didn't say anything to his sister, he just smiled.

–

"Didn't realise Lord Rodrik had a bastard. Didn't think that was like him. Bastards are supposed to be seen and not heard, right? You _must_ be one."

Godric's onlyfriend was Lame Danny Moss, and those were the first words the boy had shared with him. Though Godric was quieter than silence, Danny was no prize himself. The boy had an offset jaw, shaggy mud-coloured hair and a crippled leg. He was also a sixth-born to boot.

Before they really became friends, Danny had followed Godric around thinking he was a bastard. Though the boy was supposed to be fostering under Harrold, the eldest Forrester son didn't do anything with him, instead leaving him to stalk the younger one. Danny had only found out Godric was not a bastard when Lord Rodrik had corrected him; Godric didn't speak a lot and by the time he had mustered the courage to correct the other child it was already late enough that it would only breed embarrassment – his own embarrassment, not Danny's.

Danny spoke too much, he looked a fool and Godric was damn sure he had his lazy eye on Mira at all times. Godric didn't like when people had designs on his younger sister.

The moment Godric finally spoke to Danny came about a month and a half after their meeting, a few days after Harrold's name day feast. While following Godric as he walked the length of the courtyard precisely thirteen times a morning, Danny had asked whether Mira had any friends, and Godric had stopped and glared at him.

"Mira has many friends." he said, and then turned and continued pacing. Each time Godric performed this routine, Danny would hobble up next to him on his cane, then pause and let Godric

escape for about ten steps before rushing to catch up to him.

"Oh yeah?" the sixthborn asked. "Who _are_ her friends? I never see her with anyone."

"You're always following me." Godric retorted bluntly, eyes held firm on his boots to make sure they fell in the footprints he left when he'd walked in the opposite direction. He could tell his and Danny's footprints apart as the latter always had the small, circular mark left by his cane next to his prints.

He continued. "They're inside with the Septa learning etiquette. Mila Thornton. Kyra Mason. Leyla Branch. Rosey Greyson."

"That rhymes!" Danny remarked. "How devious of her to have rhyming friends."

"It's coincidence." Godric murmured. "It relies entirely on what order they are listed."

Danny hummed thoughtfully. "No wonder your sister has so many friends." he smiled. "All of your sisters are wonderful and vibrant. Harrold's something dashing, an' all."

"And I'm just the one who's mistaken for being a bastard." Godric grumbled.

Danny shrugged as he once again caught up to Godric and was once again left behind. "You could've told me. Finally found your voice, though," he observed. "That's something. S'it 'cause I mentioned Mira?"

Godric hummed and nodded briskly.

"Why're you so protective of her?"

The second Forrester son halted once more. Spinning on the spot and creating a circle in the mud he stared at Danny's tunic, unable to make eye contact. "She has to be protected." he admitted.

"What, from me?" Danny frowned. He looked offended, but Godric didn't know why. He wasn't inside the Moss boy's head. He often didn't know what people's faces meant so he could have been wrong.

"From everyone." Godric confirmed "Mira is special and the only people who are allowed near her are the ones who cannot hurt her. I do not care what happens to me but if anyone hurts Mira I will not forgive myself. She's too kind and too forgiving of me in spite of all of my flaws. I cannot allow anyone to hurt her."

Danny's lips twisted into a frown, but then let it subside as his toothy grin resurfaced. "Guess by now you know I think Mira's quite a flower." He admitted. "You got your eye on any of her _companions?"_

"No."

"You're 'iding something." Danny said. Godric often noticed how the boy's accent would shift between nobility and something more akin to that of his father, who was an old friend of Godric's own father. Likely why the Moss boy found himself in the Forrester's face all the time.

"I am hiding nothing." Godric stated, eyes kept on the ground as he hopped to reach a footprint that was further away than expected. "Is it so hard to believe a simple one-word answer is exactly that? I don't talk in riddles, I just say what I mean."

"You like this Mila Thornton, don't you?" Danny accused smugly, smile growing wider.

Godric groaned. "Mila Thornton is my niece. And she's five."

"Kyra Mason?"

"Kyra is my aunt's name. That would be wrong."

"It's not like you're marrying your aunt, though, is it? Speaking of which, is your cousin Jeyne _spoken for?_ "

Godric pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Jeyne deserves better than the likes of you."

Danny took the comment in stride, but not without returning a playful insult. "Well, then, Forrester – I suppose you can look forward to marrying a nice tree stump. You share a personality."

Godric had heard worse, and from where he stood at one end of the courtyard he could hear the great doors of Ironrath's castle creaking open. Danny would be gone soon enough so he wouldn't have to endure this torture much longer.

"My father's here." Danny mumbled hurriedly. "I'll have to catch up to him and my brothers before they leave me here. I'll see you around, Forrester. Us runts have to stick together after all."

On that note the strange Moss boy hobbled off on his cane to catch up to his father – who was also on a cane – and his five much more impressive brothers. Godric eyed the five Mosses and tried to put names to faces, but only managed to get Ascan, Duncan, Hoster Half-Sight and ... _Boremund_ before giving up on the fifth, muttering something about _"hopefully leaving Danny in the Wolfswood when they stop to camp on the way home"_ and instantly regretting the thought when he imagined the poor crippled boy lost in the woods.

–

Godric relished the chance to get away from Ironrath for a while, and most often this took him to Godric's Moor. Named after the site of a battle around two hundred years ago, the second son used to sit on a hill and survey the landscape, pretending it had all been named in his honour instead of his namesake's – that he'd written a book or discovered something so important to the future of men that they had named such an expanse after him. Perhaps he was the first maester to discover the cure for greyscale, or he had uncovered the ancient process used to forge Valyrian steel.

Alas, he was just Godric Forrester – second of his name. It seemed only war heroes were recognised for their deeds, and Godric the first had _died_ here.

Godric the second had managed to get this far from home thanks to those departing Ironrath and its heir's name day festivities; all it took was hopping on the back of a carriage en route to Highpoint, and hopping off about the midway mark as the road dipped south to avoid a particularly large mountain. Forrester men always accompanied those leaving out of scepticism even after what was looking to become a thirty-year truce.

He studied the landscape – the distance blurring and greying the trees at the edge of the moor, the orange hue of the setting sun cast upon the tall grass of the empty field as it concealed relics left from a battle two centuries prior. It was something he would paint if he could, but his artistic skills were awful so he had to settle for words.

The boy's attention was drawn by the sound of several somethings thumping against the grass behind him in quick repetition.

Before he knew it, a blinding white stallion was screeching to a halt beside him. As it slowed, Godric's delayed reaction kicked in and he shot into the air before collapsing flat on his back as a figure leapt skilfully from the horse and to the ground between them.

Godric stared up at the red-yellow sky as the stranger loomed over him, offering a helping hand. All that coursed through his mind were thoughts of how he didn't like being touched, so he lay there dazed until the newcomer crouched and gently gripped his wrist, pulling him to his feet with one hand and a strength that defied their frame.

The hooded stranger dusted the Forrester lad down, then took a step back and placed their hands on their hips, cocking their head as if to admire their handiwork.

"Sorry to startle you," they said. A man – Godric could identify that much. "I didn't mean to make such a grand entrance... I think it must be in my blood."

The man reached up with both hands and pulled down his hood - shaking his head so that his blond mane fell naturally to his shoulders, he cast a grin towards the young Forrester.

Godric wasn't sure, but the person standing before him may well have been the most beautiful living being he had ever seen. Everything came together perfectly; the man's aforementioned golden locks, his kind smile and deep blue eyes, the well groomed beard that clung neatly to his flawless jaw, nose neither hooked nor fat. Godric had read about such men in his books, and this stranger looked like how he imagined Rhaegar Targaryen... if the latter was blond, of course.

"I get that look a lot." the stranger smiled – no air of smugness or ego about him. In fact, he seemed to stifle the urge to shift uncomfortably on the spot, but Godric was well acquainted with such inclinations and saw right through what was admittedly a near perfect front.

The man caught his eye again, clicking his fingers and pointing at the boy. "You're the one they call the "quiet" one, aren't you?"

"That..." Godric began, having to hold down his nerves. "...Isn't the word people usually use."

"Nevertheless, I'm right." The stranger smiled, holding out an open hand for the lad to shake. "I should introduce myself – Karlon Whitehill, first born son of Lord Torrhen and Lady Greta, heir to Highpoint. Call me Karl."

Of course; blue eyes, blond hair, a strong personality and clad in navy. It was only once the surname was mentioned that Godric could see it, and he chastised himself internally for not realising sooner.

Regardless, he did not accept the handshake out of the irrational fear that he might make a fool of himself. Karl, recognising this reluctance, smoothly drew his gloved hand back and rubbed his chin with a forefinger and thumb.

"I didn't see you at Harrold's feast. What are you doing here?" Godric asked bluntly. The lack of any inflection meant that it took Karl a moment to realise he was being asked something, but he took it in stride.

"I was... around," the man admitted. "I would have loved to come, but I had my own matters to attend to at Ironrath – my father's damn near sixty now, so it would benefit to make friends with those I'll be upholding the peace with soon enough. As for being here, now, with _you_ , it's as simple as me riding home on my own and spotting a boy sitting out in a field wearing Forrester colours. I left later than the rest of my family, so I heard the whispers of a son going missing 'again.'" The man leaned forwards. "I'll be honest, I used to do the same."

Godric found it hard to believe, and his scepticism was seemingly apparent on his face. Karl quickly leaned back, resting his hands behind his back, and turned to face the trees that sat on the edge of the moor, well over a mile away from the hill they currently stood atop.

"People call you 'different', don't they?" he asked wistfully. "I've heard them. It's not a very kind thing to say about someone who's nearly a man grown – well, about _anyone,_ really."

Godric turned to face the horizon as well, appreciating the lack of eye contact. "They do." he confirmed. "It doesn't bother me. My sister taught me how to ignore it."

"Good lad." From the corner of his eye, Godric saw Karl's cheeks swell as he grinned. "Never let it get to you. They call people different – do you know what I call _them_?"

"What?"

Karl looked at Godric and winked. _"Boring._ "

Godric found himself liking the newcomer as time passed. He seemed worldly; experienced, but somehow Godric didn't believe that Karl was 'different'. Not like he was, at least – and for once he felt the urge to initiate a conversation.

"What makes you different?" he asked.

Karl shrugged. "Up until I was about your age or a little bit older, I used to pretend I was a girl."

Godric was taken aback. "You-?"

"I used to wear dresses and tie my hair in fancy patterns." The man continued. "My mother, ever supportive in my endeavours, would tell me that I was the spitting image of my eldest sister when she was 'my age'. When my younger sister – your brother's wife – refused to meet with a lordling who proposed a union between our houses, I would go in her place. No one ever knew, at least until I started growing a beard."

"But... why?"

"Sometimes I felt like a boy, sometimes I felt like a girl." Karl explained. "Girls wear dresses, so I did. It was only right; it was in my nature."

"Do you still...?"

"On occasion. I don't tend to have as much time for it these days."

Godric was dumbstruck. He had no idea how to reply to such an admission from a stranger, but Karl merely turned and smiled at him again. "You're wondering why I'm telling you? It's no secret – everyone at Highpoint knew 'that girl' was actually just Karl Whitehill indulging himself. Some children laughed at me, of course, but I didn't let it deter me. I made it my strength, and people came to admire that."

Godric felt like he knew what the man was getting at. "How am I supposed to be like that..? We have vastly different circumstances."

"I'm just an example." Karl told him. "Confidence might not be the end result of every unique trait we have, but being quiet can still win you respect – you just have to give it time and let the benefits bloom." He continued. "If you're quiet and not exactly a _people person_ , then you can embrace that and earn a reputation by achieving through being yourself as opposed to what others expect of you. You could study, travel and learn twice as fast as anyone else who spends their time chatting their lives away.

"Just look into past kings, conquerors, Maesters and the like. You'll find it's those who dared to be different – like you and I – that made the biggest ripples in the pond. Do you see what I mean?"

Godric slowly nodded. "Yes." he murmured, before adding; "but it doesn't make life any easier."

"I'd be lying if I said I expected it would." Karl nodded. "But life isn't supposed to be easy, else it would be boring. We have it vastly easier than our fathers did, at any rate. You've heard what happened to your father during the War of the Five Kings, surely?"

Godric shook his head slowly. Though his parents were wed around that time, they were tight-lipped about anything that happened at any point prior to the birth of their first son, Harrold. Godric only knew that many Forresters and Glenmores had died all over the Seven Kingdoms in that time, and he could scarcely put names to faces.

"Cor, really?" Karl asked, face painted with confusion. "Nothing at all?"

"Only that people died."

"Well... in that case, don't tell your parents it was me who told you." Karl murmured, looking a little torn. "My father told me about this. You know those scars on your father's face?" The Whitehill ran a gloved finger down his right cheekbone to emphasise his point as Godric gawped at him. "He was at the Red Wedding, where the Starks were slaughtered by the Boltons. My father was there too, fighting against yours, but that's nothing new.

"Anyway, rumour has it your father was speared, stabbed and crushed by a horse in the chaos, and cut his face up on the way down, but still came out standing when he should have been bound to a chair for the rest of his life. Within a year he'd murdered my grandfather and had set his sights on my father and I."

Godric's brow furrowed as he responded. "You don't seem to hold any enmity towards my father."

"Frankly, I can hardly blame him." Karl shrugged. "My house was the one that betrayed its Warden, not to mention how they had already caused the death of several Forresters and even cast you all from Ironrath for a few months. While I disagree with the notion of vengeance, House Whitehill did deserve some retribution for its actions, and Rodrik delivered that almost single-handedly. I hold a great deal of respect for him – not due to him taking revenge, but for his ability to halt himself and make peace... on the same night my father took his hand, no less."

"It was _your_ father?" Godric asked. It made sense now he thought of it, but Rodrik and Torrhen had at least made impartial conversation every time he had seen them. To think it was his father's most important business partner who had taken his hand, on the same night they made their deal no less, came as bit of a shock.

"He says he was defending my mother, sister and I." Karl noted, his forefinger and thumb pressed to his chin in thought. "I'm frankly uncertain whether I believe him; mother never seemed to condone the brutal lengths he used to go to so that he could protect us. Part of me wonders if that's simply how he chooses to interpret his actions, but I digress – our precursors' lives, and your father's in particular, are far worse than ours... not that it forbids us from finding life hard at times."

The Whitehill bent his knees slightly and patted Godric on the shoulder. "So if you do find things hard, feel free to send me a raven. You're not a big talker, I can see that, so perhaps writing would suit you better. I may be an heir, but I would make a poor lord if I did not make time for those who needed my thoughts."

Godric nodded as Karl withdrew his hand, aiming to turn and climb onto his horse. As he mounted the white stallion, he cast a wry grin in Godric's direction. "In the event that it's marriage you ever find yourself concerned about... well, you'd be surprised how many ladies take an interest in those such as ourselves who deviate from the norm. I've honestly heard some mention your name before."

With that the Lordling tightened his grip on the reins and softly tutted to his horse. The loyal creature instantly heeded his request and began to trot away from the Forrester lad, but was quickly halted when Karl pulled back on the reins and scoffed to himself.

"Gods, my mind is all over the place today." The golden-haired man murmured. He looked over his shoulder and eyed Godric curiously. "I even _mentioned_ that people had noticed you were missing from Ironrath; a little lad with a cane and what I assume is your sister. I'd ask if you wanted a ride back, but that means I'd be giving you the option to walk for hours on your own... so I insist."

Godric would have usually rejected a ride as it meant sitting with a stranger, but Karl seemed honest and had been a friend to him. He slowly approached the horse as Karl held his hand out, then mounted it so that he was sitting in front of the Whitehill.

"You'll be home before you know it, lad." Karl announced. Though Godric was sitting in front of him, he felt a smile beam down from the man. "I'll move fast – I have a wife and children to get home to, you know!"

–

Karl left Godric at the gates of Ironrath, and as the portcullis rose to allow him in the boy expected to enter with little fanfare. He stooped as he walked, eyes trained on the prints he had made as he'd made his routine back-and-forth through the courtyard earlier in the day.

Godric's suspicions were incorrect, however, as he spied his father waiting for him mid way down the courtyard with his younger brother, Ryon, who was nursing yet another ale. Rumour had it that Ryon had had dealings with Karl Whitehill's elder sister, but what she saw in the drunkard Godric had no idea.

"Godric..!" Rodrik breathed as he jogged towards his son, hints of a limp still clear in his right leg even after thirty years. "You mustn't keep disappearing like this – I worry that one day you won't come back."

The Lord of Ironrath's age was clear in his face – the many creases around his eyes and the bags under them made him look older than dirt, and in his eyes Godric could see the stress he had been through in his early life. Casting a glance to his uncle Ryon, he saw a similar pain in the man's eyes.

"I didn't know you cared." Godric blurted, prompting a confused and shocked expression from Rodrik. "Not until..."

Rodrik glanced down at the ground, then stared at his son again with those pained blue eyes. He looked utterly heartbroken, but there was an air of understanding about the look too.

"I'm sorry." the Lord murmured, embracing his son. "It took you disappearing _this many_ times for me to realise I have been a bad father to you. I should have been more understanding – I should have never backed down or given up. Gods, I should've defended you when Ronnel Woods was so cruel..."

Godric didn't say anything. For once, he returned the hug.

"It's all right, father." he said reassuringly. "I've learned a lot today. I've come to terms with who I am."

"No one can take that away from you." Rodrik told him. "Like when I was injured years ago... all those insults from the Whitehills – I didn't let them bring me down. It was my family that kept me going, and I should have been as supportive to you as they were to me back in my day."

Godric leaned back. "Father – there's still time."

"You'll give me a chance to be better?"

Godric nodded. "That's all I've ever wanted."


	2. He Said, She Said

Theirs was not the grandest of homes, by any means. It was rocky and grey, the mountainous landscape littered with dead, withered trees. The buildings crumbled; it felt like one collapsed entirely each year. But it was their home, and it had its charm.

He sat at the base of a dead tree that overlooked their home, sketching the landscape ahead of him. The evening sun reflected off the waves to the west of their home, sending the light bouncing off of the damp rocks that formed the shapes of their keep. The rocks were his favourite thing to draw; so much intricate detail encapsulated in such simplistic form; lines, cracks, creases, all created by the simple effort of facing the full brunt of time itself. Wind, waves, rain, even snow all attempting to drag the cliffs of his home crashing into the dirt, but they stood here, vigilant, for him to sketch out.

 _She_ , meanwhile, sat on one of the branches of the long dead tree, stripping small shards of bark and twigs and dropping them onto his head in an attempt to put him off of his piece. He let her do it, though, because... well, she _was_ his sister.

That, and he couldn't afford to piss her off. She had a mean temper, like Father. But not as bad.

Sister was the perfect example of a girl who lived where they lived; unlike the rest of Westeros, women there were trained just as men were. Girls and ladies wore breeches and tunics – at Mother's own behest; she ruled the roost and what she said, went. Her pitch black hair was cut short for a Westerosi girl, resting just above her shoulders. Mother had set a braid running over the girl's ears, linking it behind her head.

While Sister was dressed in browns and greys, echoing the landscape, He was wearing slightly more presentable garb; a darkish blue-grey vest over a brown-grey shirt. The messy curls of dirty blond hair he had inherited from Mother threatened to upset his image, but his sister's presence did him many a favour.

He jumped as Sister's boots slammed into the mud in front of him and she fell into a crouch, a single palm pressing down and punishing the strands of grass that had dared try to touch the sun. She drew herself up, wiped her muddied palm on her sandy brown shirt – leaving an ugly smear – and rested her hands on her hips, cocking an eyebrow as she tilted her head.

"Done?" she asked. Her expression told Him that he _ought_ to be done, as she was getting bored, but she wouldn't be getting her own way today.

He shook his head. "N-not yet." He murmured, leaning to the right to try and look past her, but she blocked him with a side-step. Never mind, changing his viewpoint now would probably ruin the perspective of the image anyway. "I just need to finish this side here."

He twisted the page over between his index and middle fingers, showing his sister. She placed her own fingers to her chin and leaned forward theatrically as she judged his work, mouth warping into a strange curve as she studied his scrawls.

"It's very... abstract." She concluded, leaning back and puffing out her chest. He could sense a 'but' coming – there always was one – but for once, she managed to hold it in.

He could see what She meant as he turned the page back his way, though; he saw the lines rather than the form, sketched details instead of shapes and let the pieces come together organically. Perhaps she just couldn't appreciate his style. What was the point of creating art if one could not transform that which they chose to portray in their piece?

Sister was starting to get impatient – He could tell from the way She shifted from one foot to the other as she always did when anxious. He knew that if he stalled for long enough, she would eventually start picking up the twigs and bark she had dropped from the treetops and flick them at his head to annoy him, so he decided to pack up and resume his sketch another day when she was distracted by family. He did not wish to arouse the temper she had inherited from Father.

Once he had tucked his sketches away into a woven sack and hooked it over his shoulder, he reached forward and took the hand his sister had held out to help him up. He was swiftly by her side - a full head taller than she was, much to her dismay – and the two set off walking wordlessly.

–

"How often do you think about him?"

Her question hadn't come unexpectedly – He had been anticipating it for a long time. A long time had passed since everything had happened, and He had honestly expected Her to ask him sooner. It surprised him how long it had taken her to work up the courage to ask about someone who shared their blood.

"Not nearly enough." He responded – a truthful yet roundabout answer. He was often so indulged in his artwork that he felt as if he phased out of existence and became part of the trees and rocks, leaving his sister to remain grounded in bitter reality. She had been the crux of it, after all – or at least, she'd had more of a role to play.

Sister shrugged. "I suppose I always thought of him more, anyway – looking like him. You always looked more like mother." She reached to her right and tousled his shaggy blond hair, prompting him to raise a defensive elbow and deflect her advance.

Perhaps she was right – that she thought more about it. Maybe he had bottled it up, and talking about it would force the floodgates, much like those at the west end of the keep, to open and let a sea of emotion and confusion spill in. Maybe he couldn't handle that, but now it was mentioned, there probably wasn't any chance of going back.

Sister spoke again. "Do you think she actually did it – like they all say?"

He looked at her, dumbfounded. To have so little faith in mother was insulting, but then... she hadn't given them a clear answer either way. It was always "I'll tell you another day" or "When you're older" or "It's not important." He knew she was just trying to protect them, but sometimes you needed the truth to be the thing that protected you from lies and betrayal.

"Milly told me-" Sister began, but He cut her off.

"Milly's a liar," he interjected. "She's just a baker, you shouldn't take her word for it. Not hers, not her father's, not anyone's but mother's. She's the one who knows what happened, and she'll tell us when she's ready."

He forced his eyes shut and turned away from his sister. He knew that if he looked now, he'd be able to see the steep stone hill that rolled down towards the gates of the keep. They were nearly home. For some reason, he felt like now _it_ had been mentioned, it would be harder to walk the courtyard and look at all those people who associated the two of them with what happened.

But it wasn't like they could just stay on a grassy hill forever. They'd have to go down the hill and find mother sometime. The fact that _it_ had been acknowledged now made Him wonder if he could even look at her the same way.

"You shouldn't have mentioned it." He grumbled. "Now it's just going to feel weird. We could've pretended like it had never happened and just got on with our lives."

"That's not healthy!" Sister responded. He could hear the harsh desperation in her voice. Though his back was turned he sensed her leaning forwards and throwing her arms open. He could see her even though he couldn't see her – that sixth sense that came with being a twin.

"He hasn't even written!" She continued. "I'm worried – worried that he's gone."

Worried that he was _dead_ , she meant. Worried that mother-

"She didn't do it." he retorted, turning back to face her. "I know she didn't. She's our mother and she wouldn't do something like that, you're just imagining the worst because she hasn't told us what happened."

He was shocked when she fell into his arms, burying her head in his chest. It was usually the other way around – she had always been the pillar of support. Not him. Until now.

He ran his hand through her hair like a doting parent as she sobbed into his shirt - she was scared, and in a way he was envious that she could actually express it. He knew and she knew that they had both heard what mother had said in the courtyard after it had happened. The words were there – _he_ wanted to believe they were hollow threats, _she_ thought they were genuine.

He supposed the best way to alleviate his sister was to find the truth. Ask mother what had happened.

–

Mother sat on a couch, sister's head resting on her lap. The middle-aged woman stroked the girl's dark hair as He had earlier, but eyed Him softly as he sat across the room from her. The two of them stared at each other in silence, illuminated only by the dying fire and the moonlight as it danced through the thin curtains. A draught would occasionally pass through the room – not enough to make them shiver, but enough to make them feel the bite of the cold.

The whole keep creaked at night. He could imagine them; the smallfolk, milling about and discussing what had happened those weeks... months... maybe even a year ago. He had lost track, so indulged in his art.

Mother's green eyes were locked on his. They shared the same green, just as they did with their blond hair and pale skin. She was expecting him to ask – she saw right through him, now it was just up to him to build up the courage.

He wasn't going to break eye contact with her; she probably expected he wouldn't, but he didn't want to show weakness if she had done it. That said, her face was racked with disappointment – most likely disappointment in him. Sister had expressed her desperation for answers the minute they had seen her in the courtyard, but He had remained quiet. Perhaps she was disappointed that he couldn't make his mind up – she probably knew he'd stuck up for her earlier, to his sister, but couldn't force such loyalty when faced with the truth.

Weeks or months or even a year back, father had struck sister. For a while the whole family had been detecting a shift in his mood, but none of them had expected him to go so far. He'd come home drunk and made demands of mother which had been quickly and forcefully rejected as mother was no pushover. He had demanded to take "more of an active role in the house," so to speak, but all knew he simply wanted to lay claim to the keep when it was rightfully mother's. Or, well, mother had claimed it in place of the man who should have claimed it. He had died when she was just a girl, and she believed he would only let her have it now – they were not of the same blood, but they had been family.

So perhaps it was mother's tendency to lock her feet firmly on the ground and not budge that had turned father's attention to easier targets – his children – but it had been mother's stubbornness that had also proved to be his undoing. The second she saw the man's thick-leather-gloved hand collide with sister's face, she was on him. Before they knew it, father's face was bloodied and mother was frog marching him into the courtyard, telling the children to stay inside and keep away from the windows.

As He had comforted his sister, they heard mother breaking the dead silence of night by ringing the great bell in the centre of the courtyard and waking the smallfolk; calling – no, _demanding –_ their attention. Unable to listen to one of mother's _two_ requests, He had peered through the window to see mother standing over father, the latter of whom looked a bloody mess. As far as He and sister could tell, mother seemed to have kicked him in the face.

They'd heard her scream at him, her voice like a fox barking out in the wilds, about how this was the last straw, how she'd put up with 'this sort of shit' all her life, how she had been struck once as a child and knew the feeling, how betrayed their daughter would feel having such pain come from someone who was supposed to love her unconditionally.

The words had blurred then, as Sister dragged Him back away from the window and they cowered together, not knowing what had happened. Mother did not return until the day after. Father never showed his face again - many believed he had simply run home South with his tail between his legs, while others still thought that mother had spent that night hunting him down like a fleeing dog and murdering him so that he never even had a chance to come back and hit their children again.

With how she had acted – throwing him nearly halfway across the room, yelling such things at him, kicking him in the face as she had – the children had no idea what to make of it, and it didn't help that on her return Mother had acted like nothing was wrong. When they had asked where Father was, she had given them a glare that told them not to mention him and they quickly wisened up.

It had taken this long for Sister to mention it at all; weeks, months, a year. It had taken this long for answers.

"Mother," he began, gauging her expression before he continued. It did not change. "Did you kill father?"

Mother continued to stare at him, no emotion clear on her face. When she did finally speak, her voice was soft like the draught that filled the room every so often.

"I went after him." She said. "I followed him, and I could have, but he evaded me." From the way her jaw moved behind her closed lips, it seemed as if she was biting the inside of her cheek, perhaps in some sort of self-punishment.

"Do... you think he'll come back?"

Mother stared at him. That stare softened. "No."

"Would you have done it... if he hadn't escaped?"

Mother closed her eyes. The fingers that brushed through Sister's – _Grayce's –_ hair seemed to tighten or intensify in some small way he could not truly identify.

"I want to say I would have let him live, but after the life I've lived, I think I let too many men go free of the blade. I do not want to hide this from you, Elbert; I think I would have done it, but only in that moment."

Elbert merely nodded. It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but he could at least understand she was making the effort to be truthful. Why she hadn't been with Grayce was beyond him – perhaps because she looked too much like father? He hoped that such a cosmetic thing would not have any ill effect on their relationship.

Maybe it wasn't Grayce at all. Maybe it was because _he_ looked like _Mother._ She could feel as if she was speaking to a mirror of herself – she could find it easier to admit the truth. Perhaps he would never know. Perhaps they would never speak of this again and things would be the same tomorrow.

If any of those things turned out to be true, Elbert was simply grateful that Lady Talia had told him the truth.


End file.
